


Pillow Talk

by Roturier



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: M/M, all dialog so if ydon't like it off w'ye, as close to sebaciel as you'll ever see me get, hopefuly amusing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 13:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11231520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roturier/pseuds/Roturier
Summary: Guess what I found.





	Pillow Talk

**Author's Note:**

> A/N So. I did not select 'underage' because this piece doesn't even name the participants let alone their ages. Lemme 'splain: originally I dashed this off as a quick and dir- well, not *that* kind of dirty!- demonstration of how one could use dialog (or indeed any sort of writing) to tell everything one could ever want to tell about characters, setting, sensory impressions etc.. for a young writer on ffnet who was having trouble getting her head round the idea you had a choice about exactly how you told a story. So to create a demonstration of the idea I left out all that stuff-originally it didn't even have any he said-she saids. But if you know anything at all about Black Butler you ought to have no trouble telling who is speaking at any given moment, where they are and what they're on about. Or at least if I did my job correctly you should. Anyhow, thus you are also free to imagine them any age and you please--and I STRONGLY advise you not to assign them anything that would create an illegal scenario. And if you do, don't blame me if you dream up something perverted and deeply, deeply wrong and/or morally reprehensible. 
> 
> As Silverwing used to like to write, we're all probably headed for the same place aboard that SPECIAL charter bus to Hell as it is.

“God, you are _so_ hot,” the short one muttered, trying to pull the damp nightshirt from his body.

“Why thank you, my lord. You’re a bit of a sizzler yourself.”

“Shut up, stupid demon, I meant hot _literally_. Either that blanket or this nightshirt has got to go.”

“Well, whatever gets you naked is quite all right in my book. Here: let me…” The taller helped the other tug the shirt up over his head.

“WATCH!”

“Oh... my. Sorry, my lord. Did I catch your hair?”

“My nose—on a button! …ow, it’s bleeding, you pillock…”

The tall one put a finger to his lips, trying to hold down the grin threatening to erupt across his face.

“Stop sniggering!”

“Certainly, my lord.”

“Why _are_ you so hot anyway?”

“Hm,” he pondered theatrically. “Hell of a bed mate perhaps?”

“Don’t make me kick you out on the floor, demon.”

“Go on, then.”

“What?”

“Go on, if you think you’re hard enough. You’ve never been in a pillow fight until you’ve been in one with me.”

The smaller one pulled back. “Hmm, I believe I should reconsider. You _do_ have a talent for putting feathers in the air.”

“ _And_ turning them into deadly projectiles. You remember that, do you?”

An inelegant snort. “How could I forget? Those boots in particular are burnt into my memory. ”

“Well. It’s hardly fair you get _all_ the fancy footwear in this partnership, is it?” The tall one stretched luxuriantly and lounged on his back, head cradled in his arms, crossing one leg over the other and admiring his black horn toenails.

“If those boots were the bit you let me _see_ , I can’t _begin_ to imagine the bits you chose to hide,” the small one huffed, chin in one hand.

“And that’s as it should be. You’ve already been scared out of several years’ growth. You cannot affor—”

“I am NOT short.”

“Did I say the word 'short?' The word never entered my head let alone passed my lips.”

“'ll have you know five foot five point nine-nine-nine is _average_.”

“I’m certain it is, my lord, ” he smiled somewhat less than convincingly.

“Don’t you patronise me, you…”

“…amongst Andaman Islanders and Bushmen, perhaps. Besides, you’re five foot eight in your high heels.”

_“They are **not** ‘high heels’!”_

“Of course they're not. And I’m an altar boy, my lord.”

“I’ll bet you _were_ an altar boy. You look the type. I'm talking about in the paleolithic era, of course.”

“However did you guess?” The tall one struck a sanctimonious pose, hands folded on his breast as if in prayer.

“The filthiest minds I’ve ever encountered have always belonged to altar boys. Very convincing by the way,” he said, gesturing at the folded hands.

“You’re not confusing altar boys with catamites are you?”

“What’s the difference?” 

“Yes, point taken. You were an altar boy once too.”

“Have you gone barmy? I’m not Catholic-or even religious!”

“All right then: you were a boy _on_ an altar. Same thing.”

"It isn't."

"It is. Exactly the same."

"Bet you my thurible you're dead wrong."

“I am nothing of the kind."

"Dead wro—get away from there! What do you think you’re doing?!”

“Relax. I am merely testing out a certain theory of mine…”

"Pervert! Stop!"

 _“There,_ you see? I merely touch you and right away you jump to conclusions as to my motives."

_"Oh, and I wonder why that is!"_

_Simple really. It proves you_ have the requisite filthy mind as well. You might as well be an altar boy yourself.”

“That’s it. I’m about to perform a miracle and _disappear_.”

“Come here my catamite, I wish to dote upon you…”

“O bless me Father, for I am about to sin!”

“Let me sacrifice you my child. There’s a certain little demon I wish to _raise…”_

“Risen already, from what I can see. Aagh! Let me go, you horrible, horrible hellspawn! Quick! Help! Someone save me!”

“Sorry, my lord, but you know better than anyone that _some_ things, once lost, can never be got back, and in my arms, **_you_** are most definitely _thoroughly_ lost.”

“ … ”

“ … ”

“ Mmm…”

“ … ”

“Hey Baalzebub...”

“Mmm... yes, little one?”

“This is an order:”

“My lord?”

“If anyone ever looks like rescuing me from out your arms … kill them, you hear me? On the spot. Don’t hesitate.”

“Mm... mmmhmmhmm! Yes, my lord.”


End file.
